


stuck in time

by oftheangels



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Existentialism, F/M, Im Projecting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-13
Updated: 2016-07-13
Packaged: 2018-07-23 17:41:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7473621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oftheangels/pseuds/oftheangels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fox Mulder looks around.</p>
            </blockquote>





	stuck in time

**Author's Note:**

> this entire fic is an over glorified metaphor because i started reading slaughterhouse 5 again and had an existential crisis. also i love fox mulder.

There never really was a point in time where Fox Mulder knew who he was, or what he was doing. Every second that he can properly remember has been driven on by an existential tug in his heart, a fire burning inside of him. There are no moments, only a constant barrage of need and experience and feeling. Every bit of time he has on earth is zipping past him without him even noticing, because he is so focused on what is in front of him, partially obscured by fog but there nonetheless, that he never has the time to look back, or around. He can not allow himself a second to stop, because if he stops maybe he'll see something he didn't before. Something beside him, something behind him. He's afraid that he will turn around and see something of a proverbial flashlight that will lead him to think of the deception that his own mind is liable to partake in. He's afraid that he will convince himself that the something in front of him is only a reflection of light, trick on his mind. And when there is no reason for him to go forward, what will he do? He will have exactly one moment in time, the moment of realization, and he will be stuck in it forever. 

So he soldiers forward, fluid and constant and never ending like a river. Or so he had planned. He subconsciously figures that if he stops once he will never go on again. That he'll be stuck. He never accounted for the variables of the outside world. He's been so caught up in his own current of time that he doesn't notice the streams flowing parallel to his until one of them swerves into him. And suddenly she is there, and their alpine currents are mingling together as one. Very quickly he is forced to become aware of the existence of things beside and behind him. But he refuses to look. Not yet. No matter how many times she purses her lips and says something that makes their shared little current want to rear right off course and go in spirals, getting caught up in itself and becoming weaker and weaker until it dissolves into the sky. 

Or so he had thought. Finally, after years and years of stretching out toward the light in the fog, finally after years and years of having his eyes fixed on the same papers and words, he looks away. He certainly doesn't want to but she takes his face in her hands and pries he eyes away from the fog and right to her. Their eyes lock, and he was correct, because he does stop. He stops in time, stuck in her eyes, forever. And their collective stream begins to spiral and pool into a puddle, into a pond, into a lake. Stretching out in absolutely all directions at once without once moving from the one spot in time where their eyes are locked. 

He is surprised, watching every angle from his single spot in time. Time extends in directions he didn't even know existed, and in every direction, the same fog, the same light. He still moves toward it, with her, in every direction. But now he has somewhere to go back to, so he stops, he looks around, he looks back. 

He is no longer afraid of getting stuck as long as she is there with him.


End file.
